


somnolence

by FancifulRivers



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Chara and Asriel get their bodies back, Chara is a sad baby, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, No Mercy Route mentions, Non-Binary Chara, Non-Binary Frisk, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Undertale Soulless Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 15:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14876331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: Chara sleeps a lot. Perhaps that's a problem.





	somnolence

After the barrier is broken and you somehow get your body back (you don't question the details), you sleep a lot. You don't mean to, but Frisk is busy with school and their ambassador duties and Asriel's busy with trying out school and being fawned over by two parents who still can't quite believe he's alive (and while Toriel and Asgore's relationship isn't mended- far from it- they've spent more time together since coming up here than in the past who knows how long). They spend time with you, too, but you aren't their real kid, and you know it. You try out school once, going reluctantly with Frisk, but you end up having a panic attack in a supply closet, and to your eternal shame,  _Sans_ is the one who comes and picks you up. He doesn't say anything, and that's the only thing that stops you from trying to punch him, promises to be less violent be damned.

So Frisk has their stuff and Asriel has his, and you? You've got nothing. You've got long stretches of tedium and stabs of guilt in the evening, while Toriel tries to home-school you. You try to tell her that it's pointless, but you know she doesn't agree. You're still a child in her eyes, and that means learning. You already know arguing with her that you've been dead far longer than you've been alive does nothing but make her red-eyed and snuffly (and don't  _you_ feel like a gigantic asshole for doing that to the woman who could have kicked you out but chose to take you in  _again_ ).

You could invent new and interesting ways to turn blue into red, but you promised Frisk (and Azzy, when he caught you, although you made  _him_ promise not to tell- the old Asriel wouldn't have been able to help it; the new one, tempered with Flowey, just nods) that you would try to stop, and besides, seeing your own blood spilled down your skin makes you  _remember_ now, too, and you don't want to. Not when that bonebag comes around all the time because you know he's got a crush on Mom bigger than Mt. Ebott (and isn't that a creepy thought).

So you sleep instead. You know you could sleep on the couch if you wanted to, but it feels too open, especially when you know the trashbag could come in at any minute. He's not allowed in your room, though, not without a good reason, and it has to be a good reason as justified by  _Mom_ , so you feel relatively safe there. You like to make a nest of your blankets and Frisk's, curling up in a big, jumbled pile and stacking up all the pillows around you. And you...sleep.

At first, it's just when you're bored. The problem is, you're bored all the time. You've got nothing else to  _do_. Mom's assigned homework is done within hours. Frisk and Asriel are gone at school and Mom deems you old enough to stay home without a babysitter- although not old enough to  _leave_ by yourself. If you want to leave, you have to tell someone and wait for them to show up. And considering everyone else's jobs, chances are that again, it will be Sans. You'd rather shove a tibia through your own stomach and be done with it. At least you'd be in control of the bone this time.

Soon enough, you find your eyelids drooping no matter what time of day it is. Even at dinner, when everyone is chattering around you, your bed is like a siren song. You can shut the world out there, you can succumb to blissful numbness (at least, until your nightmares intrude, but there's always another nap, isn't there? There's always another try). You don't have to pretend you're okay when you're tucked between your sheets and you're drooling on your pillow. It doesn't matter.  _Nothing_ matters and that's the appeal of it.

No one realizes how much you sleep. Except maybe the skeleton and he's a fucking hypocrite if he thinks he can talk to you about it. Every monster in existence knows how lazy he is. Hell, he let everyone get dust- 

Well, he's always been lazy, anyway. He has no room to talk and you tell him just as much the one time he tries to tell you, as you make your way to your room, that maybe you should stay up. That you've been "sleeping an awful lot." There's no blue in his eye sockets, but the white pinpricks seem to stab you just the same. Like he thinks you have something to hide. You give him a one-fingered salute and stomp off to your room. For once, sleep is a long time coming, and you curse him for that, too.

The next day, you wake up and you feel like shit. Not like you're sick- well, not physically sick, anyway. But like something inside you is ready to crack open and fall apart at the seams. Maybe your soul. You wouldn't be surprised if the damn thing's more holes than substance at this point. Determination is for suckers (and Frisk- always Frisk). You know you should get up, at least pretend long enough to fake it through breakfast that everything's okay, but you can't even muster up the energy to pull the blanket off.

It's only a matter of time until Mom stoops in. She looks worried and fresh guilt splinters through you. Will you ever put a positive emotion on her face?

"Child?" She murmurs. "You haven't come to breakfast. Are you feeling all right?"

"Just tired," you lie. She sits on the bed next to you, making it creak, and feels your forehead. She frowns slightly.

"You don't feel warm," she says. "Are you sure you're okay? I can stay home-"

"No, that's okay," you blurt out. "I- I'm fine, really, Mom." But you still can't make yourself get out of bed and you know it. She frowns again.

"I'll ask Sans to watch over you," she decides, and your slump into the pillows is wholly unfeigned.

"What about Papyrus?" You plead. "Or Alphys or-"

You can see the surprise in her eyes. You don't like hanging out with anyone else. You hate changing the routine, but you hate the comedian even more.

"I'll see," Toriel says gently. "I don't want you to be alone today, child." Her hand brushes away strands of your sweaty hair from your forehead and you swallow hard. Your throat feels unnaturally tight.

Of course, you aren't that lucky. Sans is the only one who can come over, especially with such an undefined condition as "just tired." You almost wish you'd lied and made up that you were coming down with something. Except then you'd probably end up at the doctor's and you'd rather have a do-over on your buttercups plan than see a medical professional.

Before she leaves, Mom sets you up on the couch. You're surrounded by pillows and all the blankets from your bed, but all you want is to be back there. At least then, Sans might think twice before  _intruding_. As it is, it's all too soon before he's there, slump-shouldered in his ratty blue jacket and pink bedroom slippers. You wonder if he's ever learned how to use a washing machine. Apparently not.

"hey, kid," he says, settling into the recliner. "tori says you ain't feeling too hot."

"I'm just tired," you repeat, regretting it when he leans closer.

"right," he says. His eye sockets seem to burn into you. Your hands suddenly itch for your old knife and you clench them into fists under the blanket, ignoring the dull pain of your fingernails cutting welts into your palms.

"You don't have to stay, you know," you say in a too-high, brittle voice. "You can just fuck off."

"language," he chides, but settles deeper into the recliner. You swallow the urge to curse even more. He'll probably tell Mom and then you'll be in trouble.

"If you leave, I can lie and tell Mom you stayed," you offer. You think he looks skeptical. Maybe. How are you supposed to tell from a fucking blank skull? 

"sweet, kid, but i ain't gonna break tori's trust like that," he says, staying put. You grimace. You don't really want to say what you're about to say next, but on the other hand, it's the only thing you can think of that might actually work.

"Sure about that?" You say, syrupy-sweet. He squints at you, suspicious. "I mean,  _Sans_ , do you  _really_ want to stay with a dirty brother killer?" Your voice drops to a whispered sing-song and his eye rapid flickers between blue and white. Goosebumps crawl down your back.

Then the moment is over and he relaxes back, although you can still see the tension thrumming in his phalanges.

"nice try, kid," he says. His voice is little more than a croak. "you ain't getting rid of me that easy."  _Fuck_. 

You pluck at your blankets as uncomfortable silence falls between you. You want to sleep, but you don't trust him. Frisk does. Asriel does- you think. He  _looks_ at Sans sometimes, in that peculiarly assessing way you think he picked up from being Flowey. 

"kid-" he finally starts, but you interrupt him.

"Chara," you say. He looks surprised. "My name is Chara," you continue thinly, folding your hands beneath the blankets to quell their tremble.

"right," he says. "chara. just go to sleep, okay? i'm not gonna do anything."

"Sure," you say, snorting. "And I'm not a demon."

"you're a chara-cter, but i wouldn't say you're a demon," he says carefully, and you laugh. You can't help it, it bubbles out of you until you can't tell if you're laughing or crying.

"That's not what you said in the judgment hall," you manage to say between laughing fits (sobs), then freeze, clapping your hands over your mouth. Sans looks shocked, like you've slapped him.

"Sorry," you whisper. "I didn't- I mean- I-" You pinch your lips together, trying to stop babbling. The urge to fall asleep is overwhelming. Sleep, slash your wrists open, eat buttercups until your mouth bleeds, you don't care. Anything that promises oblivion.

"even the worst person can change," Sans says finally. He sounds hoarse. "and kid- chara-" You look up. He looks ill at ease. "you aren't the worst person," he tells you. Your mouth drops open.

"But-" You don't know why you want to object to that, but maybe you do. Because you know you  _are_ a demon (why else would you have red eyes? Why else would your own mother have cursed you and tried to leave you for dead?), and you know the feeling of Mom's dust on your hands. 

"go to sleep," Sans tells you. "but chara? you should talk to your mom about this." He waves a hand at your blanket nest.

"What do you know about it," you snipe, but there's no heat in it.

"you know what," he says. You bite your lip. Maybe you do.

"Can we watch TV instead?" You request. He looks surprised, then slowly nods.

"I'm picking the channel though," you tell him. Sans laughs.

After one long moment, you laugh with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing out your own feelings is cathartic.


End file.
